


On Steadiness and Integrity

by fawatson



Category: Flight of the Heron - D. K. Broster
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 22:15:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2789615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which Keith Windham does not escape capture in Edinburgh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Steadiness and Integrity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.
> 
>  **Request/Prompt:** I would love to see absolutely anything for this. Fix-it fic for the ending? Missing moments from canon? Anything that expands on the loyalty and friendship and love these unlikely friends have for each other. I especially love the conflicts of duty and friendship that Keith has to face as a result of his affection for Ewen.
> 
>  
> 
> **Author’s Notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. Dryden’s play _The Mistaken Husband_ was published in 1675; Samuel Richardson published _Pamela_ in 1740 and its sequel _Pamela's Conduct in High Life_ in 1741; Henry Fielding published _The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and of his Friend Mr. Abraham Adams_ in 1742.
> 
> 2\. Ewen quotes from Horace’s Third Book of Odes, Ode II “Against the Degeneracy of the Roman Youth” and Keith quotes from Horace’s Epodes, Ode VII. The complete works of Horace are available on Project Gutenberg: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/14020/14020-h/14020-h.htm
> 
> 3\. The title of this story is actually the title of Ode III from Horace’s third book of Odes.

Not for the first time, Keith Windham wondered why he had refused to give his parole. Not just refused: been adamant. What good did it do him to sit here? He looked again out of the window, across the small distance to the grey stone wall of the next building, then down several stories to the flagstones at the base of the close. His room was on the sixth floor, a giddy height for any house but quite the norm within this benighted city. He shuddered, feeling slightly dizzy at the sight of the paving slabs so far below, oddly thankful for the delicate wrought iron he clutched, before he quickly shifted his gaze to look up and then across. A serving woman the next floor down in the opposite house leaned out to empty a piss-pot, undoubtedly adding to the murkiness below. Notwithstanding his feeling he was perched up far too high, more like a bird in an eyrie than a civilised man, his sober intellect recognised he was fortunate in being at the top of this house, as far removed as it was possible to be from the stench and muck at ground level. 

Not that this prime position high within the house was tribute to the dubious honour of being the only English officer held captive within Edinburgh; it was more that this was the only room with bars on the windows, the result of its former use as a nursery. Quite why the room had a lock on the door was less clear; perhaps the previous occupant had been a rather naughty child. Captain Windham had memories from his own boyhood of being set lines to copy from the Bible and told to stay in his room until done. Perhaps the former incumbent had been less compliant a child and wont to wander rather than stay put until released from his punishment. Regardless, of its original purpose, the old lock now served to hold one captured officer of the Royals. 

Clearly the family that had let the rooms to Ardroy was a prosperous one: the carved and painted rocking horse in the corner was not the kind of toy a child from a poor family would have the chance of owning. Ewen Cameron was punctilious in his courtesy, so Keith could not read anything into the fact he was being kept close confined like a toddler in a child’s room. Yet he felt it keenly nonetheless. Refusing to be paroled would not make it any better. And he would not be criticised if he now offered his parole. It would not have the least deleterious effect on his career; he would simply be sent back to Flanders, where he would rather be anyway. He _knew_ that; yet still he could not bring himself to make that oath. 

He had failed his assignment to capture the Young Pretender and instead been himself captured, by the most idiotic of mishaps. It was one more farce to add to this nonsensical rebellion. First there had been that shambles at the bridge when the men he had commanded turned tail and ran; next, the men he had taken on his foray to capture the Prince had turned equally cowardly. Those two incidents could not help but cast doubt on him as a commander of men, regardless of the fact none of the soldiers had been precisely what one might consider crack troops. However, his means of capture, even more than its simple fact, made him feel that shame ever more keenly. 

Clad in Ardroy’s cloak – one which he now understood really to have been the Prince’s – Keith had stumbled down the dark stairs of the passage leading from Lady Easterhall’s house through to the West Bow. The candle Ewen had given him had spluttered, sometimes burning long with a trail of smoke, and when a drift of breeze came up from below, fading perilously. Clearly it was in need of being trimmed; but it was all he had and the little light it cast, barely enough to make out his footing, nonetheless saved him from misstep. That is, until it guttered out just before he reached the end of the stairs. A slip brought him down on his bottom and, as the last section of the passage was a ramp rather than stair, he slid – the fine satin of the Pretender's cloak only adding to the slipperiness – into the arms of waiting Camerons, rather like a little boy out sliding in the snow. They had, at first checked him over carefully, thinking that, perhaps, this was their missing leader. His red coat had told them different and his handling had been the more rough thereafter, and his capture secure. Bound tightly he had had no chance to evade them and instead he had been brought before Charles Stuart. 

So many men fighting this war on both sides had never met the Jacobite claimant to the crown. It had been Captain Windham’s misfortune (as he saw it) to see him twice: once at Glenfinnan and now here in Edinburgh. Certainly the prince was pretty. But could he lead men? That was the question. Oh, he could inspire them, yes. That much had been clear in August and was again clear now. But to lead men wisely and sensibly through the thick and thin of war ... well, that was a different matter. His duty in the Low Countries had taught Captain Windham it took more than derring-do to win a war. Supply trains, thorough knowledge of the terrain, and careful planning _not_ to meet the enemy (or at least not when the odds were against you) were every bit as important as fine speeches, dashing charges and fancy swordplay – probably more so. Not to mention a cool head, dogged determination and the ability to stick with it: in short, stamina. These Highlanders were all excited devotion and high emotion. (Well, all bar Lochiel. From what Keith Windham had seen of _him_ at Glenfinnan, little though it was, Lochiel had appeared rather more dutifully resigned and determinedly loyal than he had enthusiastic). For the most part, though, the raw courage the Highlanders exuded with every breath seemed to match the grace, polish and charm the Young Pretender had in abundance. And therein lay the rub: they matched rather than complementing or tempering Charles’ fervour with wisdom and canniness at the science of war. 

And so Keith had seen the Prince a second time, briefly at least. More importantly: he’d been witness to the discussions when the Young Pretender’s senior staff realised, to their consternation, that this officer would not give his parole and they had nowhere to put him. Nowhere they could agree on, at least. There was the tollbooth, of course. However, it was a dank place; and, while this did not trouble the Prince in the least where lesser prisoners were concerned, it was deemed unsuitable for a man of breeding. (Keith's connection with the Earl of Stowe assisted him there.) The fact that Montrose, whose status in life was clearly far above Windham’s own, had been kept prisoner there years earlier, before his execution, in an odd way, only served to reinforce objections to the tollbooth. Part of that great man’s martyrdom stemmed from his brutal treatment by his captors; this most chivalric Prince must be seen to do better by his prisoner. Captured by Clan Cameron, Keith thus became a Cameron problem, and Ardroy was delegated the task of keeping him secure – hence his current abode. 

Keith heard footsteps on the stair and checked again out the window, this time looking up, not down. The slate coloured sky confirmed what the encroaching shadows in the room had told: this day was drawing to a close. Dusk fell depressingly early in these northern climes at this time of year. Those footsteps would be either Lachlan or Neil MacMartin, Ardroy’s faithful hound-dogs, coming with a tinderbox to light the lamps. In due course they would be followed by Ardroy himself, checking on his comfort. The lock squealed its protest as the key was turned, announcing Neil’s arrival. He set a candle on the table before reaching back through the door for a can of warm water. 

“Mac ‘ic Ailein is having a few friends for the supper tonight,” said Neil MacMartin, “and was asking me to ask you whether you would join him.” 

He placed the fresh water on the washstand before making his way round the room, lighting the two oil lamps that had been provided. Finally, he bent to fish out the rather smelly half-full pot from under the bed, which he took with him as he left, having replaced it with the clean empty receptacle he had brought with him. 

He said, as always, the minimum necessary; but on balance, Keith preferred Neil over his brother. The piper simply appeared uncomfortable with words: a quiet, reticent man, probably one who played because the very silence that made him stumble with speech urged him to song. Keith might wish his instrument was more civilised, but he had memories of Masters, his father’s old groomsman who had taught him to ride, playing a fiddle in the evenings to those same horses; it was much of a muchness. Lachlan MacMartin, on the other hand glowered; and, while he might also remove the chamber pot each evening, somehow - without saying anything - he made it clear he felt it beneath his dignity to perform such a menial task. No doubt the changing of pots was something more normally left to a chambermaid but Keith had seen none such since his capture. Clearly Ardroy was taking no chances of the door being opened by someone his prisoner might conceivably overpower, trick, or suborn. Captain Windham knew better than to try any such with Neil or Lachlan. 

Keith appreciated the courtesy which led Ardroy to invite him to sup with the family, rather than simply order his appearance. He looked through his borrowed clothing (once again he was using Ardroy’s apparel) for a clean shirt and cravat and prepared for company also by shaving. The fading natural light made this more tricky; the warm glow of the oil lamps helped but did not fully compensate. However Keith persevered and achieved a reasonable shave with only two slight nicks to his chin. 

He had not long to wait before his escort arrived, Lachlan this time, who clearly disapproved but would never dream of disobeying. The lamps accompanied them on their journey down the narrow winding stairway to the parlour two flights down, Lachlan carrying one and he the other. As expected, Miss Grant and her father were included in the party, and he greeted them cordially. A little, plump woman was introduced as Mrs Cameron, and Ardoy’s aunt, _not_ the same one Keith had met in the summer, but the name made clear she was another connection of the clan. A rather elegant young man in French uniform was unknown to Keith, though given the resemblance to Ardroy’s fiancée, the introduction to Hector Grant was no real shock. 

“Ewen is having his hand checked,” Miss Grant explained, “but he’ll be with us shortly. 

“His hand?” Keith felt an uncomfortable guilty pang when remembering how Mr Cameron had come by his wound. 

“He pretends it is nothing, but I do not think Dr Archie would be keeping quite so close an eye on it if it were just the scratch he claims,” Alison Grant said firmly. 

It was on the tip of Keith’s tongue to probe for details but the little group was just then joined by their host, who was accompanied by a middle-aged gentleman whose brown hair was distinguished with grey at the temples. Close relative to Lochiel as he was, Archibald Cameron, was familiar by reputation to Captain Windham, though he had not met the good doctor last summer. While Keith looked worriedly at the bandage on Ardroy’s hand, which, bound over the wound as it was, told him nothing he did not already know, those calm compassionate medical eyes looked searchingly at the Englishman, before Dr Archie nodded and smiled to himself. 

“Come,” he said, “the servants will undoubtedly soon be in with the meal, and the table is not yet prepared. 

Waving Ewen back (“not with your hand”) Dr Archie directed Hector and Keith to pull the drop leaf table from its normal resting place by one wall, opening its leaves and situating it in the centre of the room. Two brass candlesticks were moved from the mantel over the fireplace to the table and the oil lamps that had been brought downstairs put in their place. They were just in time. Keith was still hurriedly handing round plates and cutlery, dodging Hector as he arranged the chairs, even as the serving maids arrived laden with the meal. 

Seven made an awkward number to seat; but the convivial atmosphere did not allow Captain Windham to feel out of place, notwithstanding the difference in political views. Ardroy, of course, took the head of the table; his aunt, pressed into hostess duties by virtue of being the senior female present, was seated at its foot. Captain Windham found himself in the place of honour to her right, with the good doctor on his right. The meal was a simple one: pie with roasted vegetables. The claret which accompanied it was rather good, and the decorated marchpane which followed rich and sweet. Unspoken agreement kept the conversation to innocuous subjects. Miss Grant, seated between Ewen and Dr Archie took advantage of her proximity to question him closely about her fiance’s injury. It was not really polite but Keith could not help but overhear, and, to his relief, was reassured there was no nerve damage and the sword wound was expected to heal cleanly with no lasting weakness. Her anxieties for Ewen’s health set to rest, Miss Grant professed herself delighted to hear all about the Prince’s portrait sittings. His attire was extensively discussed. Hector Grant seemed to be spending much time walking round Edinburgh taking in all the sights, which he compared favourably to those he had seen in Paris. Meal finished, there was no formal withdrawal of the ladies to another room, leaving the men to their port, as there would have been in London. Indeed, there appeared to be no other room to withdraw to. (Edinburgh was very crowded since the Prince had arrived.) Instead the table was cleared and placed once again against the wall, and the group mingled and chatted while drinks were served. 

All in all it was a pleasant evening, made even more so for Keith as it broke the monotony of that garret nursery. He was conscious as he was escorted upward at its end that he had had perhaps one glass too many. Nonetheless, his thoughts raced as he donned his borrowed nightshirt; and, once in bed, Keith felt edgy and struggled to compose himself sufficiently to sleep. No matter how careful Ardroy’s guests had tried to be, no matter how conscientiously they had tried to avoid discussing the rebellion in front of him, their general excitement had overcome discretion. What he had learned at supper tonight was vital news: an invasion of England was being planned. _Somehow_ he must realise his escape. 

The next morning he was roused slightly earlier than usual by a glowering Lachlan who brought a bowl of porridge. If today ran true to form, Keith knew he would be left to his own devices for most of the day, though he could expect a brief visit from Ardroy himself in late afternoon. Effort had been made, however, to his entertainment. The day after his confinement started, Ardroy had brought him a selection of books, which he had been gradually reading through ever since. He had never had the time to read much before, busy as he had been with soldiering. They were not the sort of thing one took when marching from one battlefield to another. However, he had certainly heard of Richardson’s _Pamela_ and Ardroy had also found a copy of its sequel. They were not entirely to Captain Windham’s taste, popular though they may have been with the ladies. As a foil he’d also been provided with a battered copy of _The Mistaken Husband_ , plus _Joseph Andrews_. Somehow Captain Windham thought those two more likely Ardroy’s choice, while the others had more likely been his aunt’s, or perhaps fiancée’s. Regardless, clearly some effort had gone into their procurement. Just as he was not wont to take reading material on campaign, he doubted Ardroy did either. Whether they had come in Miss Grant’s baggage when she travelled from Loch na h-Iolaire to join Mr Cameron in Edinburgh, or been obtained from a local bookseller (there were one or two in the city, still trading, as the war touched the town’s merchants but lightly) he could not know. It had been a kindness to provide them; Keith allowed he would have been very bored indeed, confined to these four walls for the majority of each day, had he not been offered anything to read. One could only stare out the window so long, watching the comings and goings of those in the close, before feeling tired just from the very sameness of it all.

Today, however, he ignored both activities in favour of close inspection of the lock. Not that it was the first time he had checked it; but he had not looked really carefully since that first day of his imprisonment. He had added incentive now. He really _must _escape to bring word of the impending invasion to General Preston. That elderly gentleman might not have it in his power to stop the Young Pretender’s army from marching but he certainly could (and definitely would) ensure word was sent to those who had the military strength to defend their motherland from the Scots. However, the lock might be a bit battered but still it resisted his efforts to pick it.__

In the end it wasn’t until he resumed reading one of the novels that an idea came to him. It went against the grain to deface books not his, still more to use Ardroy’s kindness against him (again). However, needs must: a flyleaf was torn from the back of _Pamela_ and folded into a strip; and, when he thought it might not suffice, one from another volume joined it. 

Preparations complete, he read, with increasing disgust, about Pamela’s exploits. She seemed a singularly stupid young woman, albeit virtuous. Would that Lydia Shelmerdine had had her virtues; would that Pamela had Lydia’s quick wit and lively disposition! Perhaps that was the problem: no _real_ woman could have both a vivacity and honour. Though, Keith did allow, Ardroy’s Miss Grant, clearly trustworthy, was also intelligent and spirited. However, she seemed more gentle and loving than a brilliant wit. He recalled his pleasure in the repartee he had indulged in with Lydia – before, that is, he had learned of her falseness. He had never thought to find such a keen mind in a woman until he had met her, more like a man’s intelligence than what passed for such in the distaff sex. Captain Windham’s brow creased as the memories interrupted his reading. In the end he discarded the book and took up a pack of playing cards, which he shuffled and laid out for whist. It was deuced peculiar trying to play all four hands himself, but it passed a little time, before it, too, bored. He was reduced to trying to build a tower from the cards when Ardroy entered. He brought with him a large brindled dog who immediately pounced on the edifice Keith had been erecting, sending all the cards flying. The ensuing confusion provided an excellent opportunity for Keith to wedge the paper strip into the doorjamb, leaving a small part sticking out into the room. He had blackened this with a pencil stub to make it less noticeable. The encroaching gloom of dusk should also help to hide his tampering. Ardroy had brought a light with him but it did not reach the corners of the room – nor the doorway. 

Ewen apologised for his hound’s enthusiasm. “He may look grown but is little more than a pup.” 

“How come you to have a dog on campaign?” asked Captain Windham. 

Ardroy laughed, “But that is traditional: chieftains of old went into battle with war hounds at their side. Though I must admit, they were undoubtedly better trained than Luach here.” 

There followed polite discussion about the merits (and otherwise) of dogs, Keith recounting both amusing tales of his own happy rambles as a child with his terrier, and a sad tale of how all the dogs of Tournay had been eaten during the siege. He profoundly hoped the same experience would not be visited upon Luach, he said. From this came discussion of his role in the Battle of Fontenay, which sadly had failed to break the French siege. Ewen asked after his wound from that battle and Keith asked after Ewen’s hand, feeling intense relief when he saw Ewen flex his fingers easily. But that brought the conversation perilously close to the current war, leading to an awkward silence before Ewen asked if Keith had finished all the books. 

“I must confess to preferring farce to homily,” said Keith. “Worthy she may be but I simply feel the urge to shake Miss Pamela when I read about her swooning.” 

__Ardroy laughed again, promising to look for different reading material, “though it might be some classroom textbook like Horace or Caesar."  
  
“I can see now you are determined I should read moral exhortations, even if from a different age,” Keith retorted.  
  
“Virtue, throwing open heaven to those who deserve not to die, directs her progress through paths of difficulty," quoted Ardroy. His eyes smiled their good will.  
  
Keith countered: “Whither, whither, impious men are you rushing? Or why are the swords drawn, that were so lately sheathed? Is there too little of Roman blood spilled upon land and sea?”  


He could have kicked himself as soon as the words left his mouth. They were back to the war again. However Ardroy took it in good part, and countered with a quip from Caesar. In the end, they spent a pleasant hour testing one another’s wits in repartee at least as good as the best to be had in any London drawing room. Not for the first time Keith reflected on the double edge of circumstance. Without the rebellion they never would have met, and he could not regret their acquaintance. But rebellion made an enemy of a man for whom he felt only the tug of friendship. 

It was not long before Neil MacMartin arrived with Keith’s evening meal and Ardroy excused himself. 

“I dine with Lochiel tonight,” he explained, “and must make ready." 

Locked in once more, Captain Windham waited, keeping an eye on the close below. In due course Ardroy departed, accompanied by the MacMartin brothers. Now was the time. He tackled the lock using the rather blunt knife left with him to cut his meat, but even with the assistance of the strip of paper, the mechanism resisted his efforts. He supposed his clumsy probing showed him to be more gentleman than lock-pick, which was all to the credit of his character but he could have wished otherwise. He persisted; he really _must_ get word to the castle of the Jacobite invasion plans. Eventually, this paid off and the lock yielded. 

Captain Windham crept quietly down the stairs, once again disguised in Ardroy’s clothes, having left his red coat behind as too conspicuous. Instinct told him to run when he reached street level. Firmly he denied it and instead sauntered along the road, heading uphill toward the castle, doing his best to appear out for a casual stroll. 

As he approached the gatehouse he felt a moment of trepidation; his lack of uniform could make him an object of suspicion. But his accent told otherwise. 

“I must see General Preston immediately,” Captain Windham asserted. “I have news of the Young Pretender’s campaign plans.” 


End file.
